The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE)

by Nelle L'Amour

  One last question. “And who’s flitting the bill for all this?”

  Smiling coyly, Katrina answers. “Well, since the budget for my show is only $20,000 per episode and poor Daddy is in jail and can’t even come to his own daughter’s wedding, you are.”

  “I am?”

  “Of course, darling. I discussed it all with our mutual business manager Scott while you were in a coma, and he agreed to everything. You’ll never miss the ten million dollars.”

  Dinner arrives. Maybe, I would have been better off staying asleep in a coma. At least past our wedding date.

  Zoey

  The only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—Get Well. I love you! <3—while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans: Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3 I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!

  I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.

  Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

  Did u say u give massages?

  I reply.

  Yes.

  He responds.

  I want one now.

  Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

  Well…???

  In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

  Do I need to fire u?

  GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.

  FINE. Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.

  “Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

  He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”

  His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!

  “No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

  “I don’t do underwear.”

  My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?

  He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”

  “Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.

  His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”

  His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”

  A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.

  He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”

  No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.

  His mouth twists. “Yeah, right.”

  I detect attitude. “By the way, how was your dinner with her mother?”

  “Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”

  Don’t ask. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”

  Five minutes later, he’s back, clad in adorable purple and white polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart beating fast, I soak in his bare-chested body. My eyes travel down his gorgeous chiseled chest and land on his crotch. His cock is just a handful away. One could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and own it.

  “Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.

  He does as requested, setting his head on the headrest attachment. His long, muscular legs reach almost to the very end of the padded table. I admire his beautiful sculpted back and his broad swimmer’s shoulders. The burning urge to run my hands over every glorious ridge and contour has my heart racing with anticipation.

  “Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”

  I tread over to his sound system and make a selection. A vintage compilation of Kenny G’s Greatest Hits. “Loving You” is first up. The sound of the saxophone is slow, smooth, and soothing. Pure perfection. On the way back to the table, I dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is just right for a sensuous massage. Or a sensuous fuck.

  “Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.

  “Yeah. More than ready.”

  “Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”

  “No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”

  Mr. Hot and Bossy. Ms. Hot and Bothered. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table before rubbing my palms to warm it.

  I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most tension. I press my strong, oiled-up hands on his taut flawless flesh and start to knead his muscles, making deep circular motions with my thumbs. My hands melt into his body.

  He curses under his breath. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I went to a special training school. I told you I’m a certified massage therapist.”

  “Mmm. What smells so good?”

  “The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.”

  As I continue to work his back, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and then lets it out with a sensual, drawn out sigh that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.

  “You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “A lot of reasons. The amnesia, the wedding, going back to work. Plus, I have some other major shit I’m dealing with. A crisis.”

  “You do have a lot stuff going on,” I agree, wondering what his personal crisis is all about. Something other than his amnesia-induced identity issue?

  Applying more pressure, I knead his knots, but they’re not loosening up. “You’re carrying a load of stress in your upper back. If it’s okay by you, I need to straddle you so I can go deeper.”

  “Be my guest.”

  As the next instrumental piece starts up, I climb onto the table and mount him, my legs straddling his narrow hips. It’s a good thing I’m wearing stretchy yoga pants. Not the most ass-flattering thing I own, but they’re comfy and functional.

  The sexy sound of the sax mingles with the soothing lavender scent of the massage oil as I press my fingers deep into his tissues and make circular motions. His skin feels like warm velvet and glistens from the sheen of the oil. My fingertips burn at the touch of his flesh. I’m working up a sweat. As I work him deeper and deeper, leaning into him and using my elbows, my breasts brush against his shimmering flesh. My nipples harden beneath my sports bra. His massage—or should I say my massage?—is arousing me, sending pulsing sensations to my sex. With every rock of my hips, the cluster of nerves between my legs rubs against him, buzzing with my hunger for him. I’m a hot, wet mess. I suppress a moan of my own while he groans.

  “Oh, yeah.
”

  He sounds like a man on the verge of a major orgasm. His low, sexy rumble rouses me further, creating a tremor of excitement in my core. Making my way down his chiseled back, I have the sudden impulse to drag my tongue along the curve of his spine and taste him, then press my lips against his delicious skin and kiss him everywhere. My body is burning with lust. It takes all I have to concentrate on the massage.

  “I feel so much better,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

  And I feel flush with fever. Delirious with desire. I’ve gotten out all his knots, but now I’m the one who’s tense, twisted, and on edge. Touching him has made me want to touch myself. And quell the pulsing ache between my thighs.

  “Should I turn over?”

  “Not yet,” I breathe out, trying to compose myself. “I want to massage your feet.”

  I unstraddle him—far from a graceful move—and stagger to the end of the massage table. My heated body is still aflutter. “Bend your right leg.”

  He complies wordlessly. After squirting more of the massage oil on my palms, I take his foot into my hands. Painfully aware of my body’s sensations, I admire the length and shape of it—so elegant and manly, and the skin is soft, not calloused. I dig my thumbs deep into the sole, pressing hard against various pressure points.

  He hisses.

  Good. He’s releasing stress. I rub and tug each of his beautiful toes. The truth: I’d rather be sucking them while bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm with one of my talented hands.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs while I squeeze his little toe.

  Silently, I repeat my motions with his other foot. His moans and groans grow louder, and he cusses again under his breath. Foot massage, formally called reflexology, is very powerful. It’s called reflexology because the nerves in your foot connect to all the nerves in your body. What you feel in your feet can be felt elsewhere. There’s even one spot that connects to your genitals. Women, in particular, have reported achieving orgasms when that trigger spot is massaged.

  I ask him to flip over. With a groan, he twists onto his back.

  Kenny G’s moving rendition of the Titanic theme song filters into my ears and my eyes widen. Make that pop out of their sockets. Holy smoke! His eyes closed, he’s got a Titanic erection. I underestimated it. It’s fucking monstrous! And it’s straining against his boxers, begging to burst through the slit. My breath catches in my throat; my heart beats like a jackrabbit’s. My pussy pulses madly. I’ve seen plenty of hard-ons, but nothing like this. I have a decision to make—let it sail or let it sink. I opt for neither.

  The melody of the haunting song plays on. I’ve forgotten how much this song affects me. Auntie Jo and Pops took me to see the epic movie with Jeffrey opening day for my tenth birthday. Little did they know it would end with a drowning. Like Mama’s. In the ocean no less. I bawled my eyes out and made myself sick. So sick I had to stay home from school the next day. The unsung lyrics play in my head:

  Every night in my dream

  I see you, I feel you.

  A surge of emotion overwhelms me. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of Mama. I think of him.

  My eyes stay locked on his colossal cock. I want to touch it. Hold it. Stroke it. Possess it. Fill the deep need that’s stealing my breath.

  Unable to control myself, my hand descends toward his mega erection. The heat of it, radiating right through the fabric of his boxers, draws me like a moth to a flame. I touch down lightly on it for a heart-stopping second. It stirs, and a soft, throaty “mmm” exits his lips. At the sound of the rumble, my hand jumps off as if it’s been singed. A twinge of guilt is followed by a twitch of his dick.

  “Brandon, we’re done.” I barely manage the words. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling is strangling me while the erotic sensations are debilitating me. I’m shaking all over, from my head to my toes. I can’t go on like this.

  His eyes blink open. He bolts up to a sitting position and faces me. His lids are hooded, his expression dazed and confused. “What do you mean?”

  My eyes quickly shift from the outrageous bulge between his legs to his dreamy face, which looks even more beautiful in the warm glow of the flickering candle. His lush lips are slightly parted and his violet eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. My heart hammers painfully in my chest for the stunning man I can’t have. Touching him has touched me in all the wrong places.

  “I mean, time’s up. In our contract, we agreed to a one-hour maximum massage.” I glance down at my watch. It’s way past eleven. “I’ve actually given you extra.” More than you’ll ever know.

  “Oh,” he mutters. “I don’t remember that clause.”

  Thank goodness for his memory loss. He has no clue I’m bullshitting him. My contract actually calls for me to be at his beck and call 24/7—even on Sunday, my one day off. I’m at his command. But right now, I need to get away from him. Desperately. The combination of touching him physically and this melody touching me emotionally has wreaked havoc on my body. I feel lightheaded and weak, short of breath. I cling to the corners of the massage table, thinking I may faint.

  “Brandon, I’ve got to go,” I breathe out. “You need to get off the table.”

  Brandon repositions himself, draping his long legs over the edge. Unable to move, I stare at him, memorizing every beautiful feature that basks in the candlelight. The Titanic love song, still playing, tears at my heart, tears me apart. I fight back the tears that are threatening to spill.

  “Zoey, help me off the table.”

  I don’t move. I don’t respond.

  “Zoey…”

  I will my unsteady legs to move. Every little step is an effort.

  “Just stand up slowly,” I tell him softly, face to face, almost eye to eye. I avert casting my gaze downward.

  He stays put. His warm breath heats my cheeks. His gemstone eyes glisten and hold me captive.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.”

  “I think I’m allergic to that oil I used.” I fake a little smile before a telltale tear escapes.

  He tenderly brushes it away with this thumb. “Thank you, Zoey.”

  A thank you?

  “You helped me with one of the issues I was dealing with.” He looks down. “Enormously.”

  My eyes flick to his enormous erection. No way can Brandon Taylor, the sexiest man alive, be suffering from erectile dysfunction. He’s sex on a stick.

  Trembling, I look back up at him and mumble one word: “Sure.”

  “Do you want to share some wine with me?”

  My heart skips a beat. He’s never asked me to share anything except those fries earlier tonight. I glance down again at the mega-tent between his legs and decline. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust him.

  “Brandon, I think what you need is a hot bath.”

  His smoldering eyes stay glued on me. “Then, draw one for me.” Another order.

  “No.” My voice is shaky. “I don’t do baths.”

  “I suppose that clause is in your contract too?” A layer of sarcasm laces his voice.

  “Correct.” Another white lie, though personally I’ve never taken one since Mama’s drowning.

  Silence. The Titanic theme segues into “Going Home.” My cue.

  “Well, I’d better be going.” While I put the bottle of oil back into my tote, he stays put on the massage table.

  I move back to the table. I need to fold it up. Except he’s still on it. His bulge hasn’t budged either. “Um, uh, would you please—”

  He cuts me off and clasps my hands in his. He raises them close to his lips, so close I can feel his warm breath skim my knuckles. Every nerve inside me is buzzing. His eyes stay on my hands and then they hold me fierce in his gaze.

  “Zoey, your hands are magical. And they’re beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” My voice is so small I can barely hear myself. It doesn’t help that my racing heart is pounding loudly. I’m sure he can hear it.

  “That massage really h
elped me.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” I learned in my massage classes about the power of touch. It can arouse feelings. Even bring back memories. In fact, just a single caress can become a symphony of passion, an unquenchable desire to possess.

  “You’ve made me feel something I haven’t felt for a long time.”

  My chest is tightening. And my heart’s beating so hard it may burst right through my bra. I force myself not to look down at his straining erection. “Feeling is the gift of touch,” I say softly.

  Suddenly, his eyes flutter madly. Like he’s having some kind of seizure.

  “Brandon, are you okay?” I ask anxiously. Maybe it’s associated with his head trauma.

  A smile curls on his luscious lips. His violet eyes light up. “Yes! I’ve remembered something.”

  A sinking feeling eats at me. I’ve aroused both his cock and his memory. He remembers how much he loves Katrina.

  “What?” I ask with hesitation.

  “The day I hired you.”

  My eyes widen with surprise. “You do?”

  “Yeah. Like it happened only yesterday. It was raining and you crashed your car into my garage.”

  I screw up my face. He’s right! I’ve tried not to think about that little incident. Sometimes forgetting is better than remembering.

  “I was a nervous wreck.” Just like I am now. A hot wet bundle of nerves. I was in love with his character, Kurt Kussler, but I wasn’t prepared for the shock of meeting Brandon Taylor in person. He was even more gorgeous than I’d imagined. The most gorgeous man I ever met.

  Brandon chuckles. “You were quite amusing.”

  “I was?” My hands tremble in his.

  “Yeah. When you got out of the car, you dropped your purse. All your tampons came flying out. I had to help you pick them up. If I recall correctly, they were the easy-to-insert brand.”

  Mortification races through me. I chew on my lip. That episode plays in my head like a scene out of a sitcom. Yeah, I was a total spaz. That’s because I was shaking all over. And it didn’t help having Mr. Gorgeous squatting next to me and trying to look up my skirt. Making me wetter than the pouring rain. And then our fingertips accidentally met, and it was as if a bolt of lightning had zapped me.